


we were born sick (you heard them say it)

by akinasperanza



Series: the undone and the divine [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, at least i've quoted hozier you can't fault me for that, i tried to be all eloquent and poetic but honestly it's probably a mess, over-the-shoulder carry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23244658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akinasperanza/pseuds/akinasperanza
Summary: The halls parted for Malcolm as the Red Sea parted for Moses, though he doubted that this was divine intervention so much as a mass exodus of personal involvement with Malcolm Whitly. New York’s elephant’s memory, and the half-decade anniversary of the arrest of The Surgeon, were not two facts in Malcolm’s orbit which coalesced harmoniously–they were not Van Gogh’s Starry Night, they were Picasso’s Three Musicians, working to create the big picture without one straying over the borders of another.
Series: the undone and the divine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671304
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	we were born sick (you heard them say it)

**Author's Note:**

> I've honestly never written anything like this. Beginning on BTHB and writing in this kind of style (let alone this fandom) has been a bit of a learning curve, but hopefully it worked out okay and you all enjoy!

In many ways, childhood innocence could be a blessing.

Living in the vitriolic cesspool of New York City meant that the horrific acts of crime moving past on news tickers and small third-page spaces were a part of daily life. It was nothing to read about another violent mugging late at night, or a lovers’ quarrel gone wrong. It became playground chatter for one day, maybe two, and then people moved on to whatever else had come up in the meantime.

But childhood innocence only stretched so far.

News of a serial killer would not be swept up under the rug. It would not be printed on the third-page, it would not pass by in the ticker plastered in front of the evening news. This was a crime too controversial, too fear-inducing, too  _ enthralling _ to disappear into the cracks of childhood consciousness.

Exaggerated, overly violent and overly gruesome details echoed through the hallways, bouncing from classroom walls to playground tunnels and back again. Newspaper clippings were brought in to school for show-and-tell only stashed away in locked drawers by teachers daydreaming of a simpler city, a quieter city. And the notable absence of a scion of the social elite was the spider on a spun web, its movement casting ripples across each and every thread.

Childhood innocence couldn’t stretch far enough.

* * *

It started even before Malcolm had walked through the gates. The stares, the whispers, the sudden halts in discussion as he pounded the damp pavement. Occasionally, the odd student would holler a remark intended to be a witty jab, but Malcolm soon discovered that it only took barely an unamused glance before they were suddenly silent in their reactions to the absence of the son of one of New York’s most prolific serial murderers.

The halls parted for Malcolm as the Red Sea parted for Moses, though he doubted that this was divine intervention so much as a mass exodus of personal involvement with Malcolm Whitly. New York’s elephant’s memory, and the half-decade anniversary of the arrest of The Surgeon, were not two facts in Malcolm’s orbit which coalesced harmoniously–they were not Van Gogh’s  _ Starry Night _ , they were Picasso’s  _ Three Musicians _ , working to create the big picture without one straying over the borders of another.

Time seemed to pass in a bubble particularly separate from the standard plane of existence. With every sidelong glance from classmates, and sympathetic pats on the shoulder from teachers, the seconds seemed to stretch on and on until suddenly the world around Malcolm was moving in fast-forward and  _ he _ was the one stuck on pause.

The stark reminder of his father, of Claremont, of the  _ Surgeon, _ did not fade as Malcolm walked through the school gates. The street was littered with reminders of the life  _ before _ —the curb where his father would drop him off to school when he was too young to walk the distance on his own, the cafe across the street where Martin would occasionally sneak his son for hot chocolate on the winter days when his mother was too busy with her social business to take note of the detour. 

The gentle flutter of the morning newspaper, front page plastered with the final picture media had been able to capture before Martin’s incarceration at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, disturbed the memory that Malcolm was living in as he chose to walk straight home rather than spend his afternoon at the library studying the work that he had zoned out through during the day’s class.

The day didn’t seem to be going his way, Malcolm noted desolately when he came to the corner to find the pavement closed off for construction on the damaged building it was built alongside. On the opposite street stood a large crowd of students, too large for Malcolm to be able to push his way through, too large to ignore each baiting comment and judgemental glance. It was risky, but Malcolm knew that there was an alleyway behind the damaged building which would allow him to bypass the main road entirely, though the balance of luck would mean that he would be foregoing the safety of using the public road.

The logic of avoiding the student mass won out against self-preservation, and it only took Malcolm a few moments to cross the street and enter into the lane. It didn’t take long for Malcolm to realise how much of a terrible idea he had had.

Malcolm didn’t have time to react as something struck him from the side, the world spinning as his head slammed into the brick wall beside him.

_ “Hold him down!” _

The hiss mingled with the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, and of wood hitting flesh, as Malcolm found himself at a severe disadvantage. He could count at least three sets of fists and feet, and at least one other wielding a particularly firm baseball bat as they kept on swinging at his prone form.

_ “Your father’s sick, Whitly, you know that? Who knows what he passed down to you.” _

Tears welled in Malcolm’s eyes as he yelled, in pain and in need of help, curling in on himself in protection as best as he could. The attack was never ceasing, insistent and frenzied and brutal in a way he would never be able to describe.

* * *

It ended as fast as it had begun, his assailants slinking into the shadows as Malcolm lay flat on his back, gasping for air. His leg cried out as he painfully dragged himself along the ground until he could dig his fingers into the indents in the brick, pulling himself up until he sat with his back to the wall, his lungs screaming for air and his ankle bent at an angle which Malcolm knew just wasn’t natural.

It took time, and effort, and a  _ hell _ of a lot of pain, and all Malcolm could do was simply sit and wait for his body to adjust to its new bruised state. The taste of metal filled his senses, his narrowed vision hazy and all he could smell was blood.

His.

Slowly, Malcolm pulled himself to his feet and managed to stagger down the remainder of the alleyway with the aid of the wall beside him. His vision was skewed, but Malcolm could recall from memory that there was a payphone just to the left of the alley exit, and he wasn’t disappointed as he stumbled into the booth, ignoring the concerned passers-by as he hurriedly sifted through his pockets for spare change. By some sort of miracle, his pockets produced just enough coins to afford a call, and Malcolm hesitated only briefly before dialling.

The seconds seemed to stretch and merge as Malcolm waited for Gil, slumped against the outside of the phone booth. He had caught brief glimpses of his vague reflection in the enclosed space of the steel booth, and based on the marred blur he knew that he wasn’t faring too well. One eye almost entirely swollen shut, bloodied cuts littering his face and arms, an ankle which Malcolm could almost guarantee was fractured, if not broken, and ribs which were practically guaranteed to be broken.

Crouched low to the ground, his head resting on his knees in an attempt to rest his pounding head, Malcolm wouldn’t have noticed that Gil had screeched up to the curb if he hadn’t heard Gil’s recognisable baritone utter a simple  _ “shit” _ before Malcolm found himself being pulled gently to his feet.

“What’d they do to you, kid?” Gil murmured in sympathy, a steadying hand firm on Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Malcolm attempted to respond breezily, but the effect was rather ruined when he winced in pain, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as a sharp pain shot through his chest whenever he attempted to breathe.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure,” Gil appeased, “but either way, I’m taking you to Lenox Hill. And no protests,” he warned when Malcolm opened his mouth to speak. “I’m not going to just send you home to your mother without at least getting you checked out.”

Malcolm winced again, this time not from pain, as he thought of his mother’s reaction to what had happened.

“Do you think you can walk?” Gil asked doubtfully. Nodding eagerly before shutting his eyes quickly to keep the dizziness at bay, Malcolm hadn’t even taken a full step forwards before he crumbled towards the ground, barely caught in Gil’s arms in time before hitting the pavement.

“It’s alright, kid, I’ve got you,” Gil reassuringly murmured, adjusting his grip before lifting Malcolm up and onto his shoulder, careful of his left side, and carrying his lean frame the small distance between the payphone and his car. Malcolm let out a grunt as Gil set him down against the side of the car in order to open the door, studiously avoiding the occasional concerned glance from passersby, before Gil gently shoved him into the passenger seat.

* * *

Malcolm felt oddly out of place in the world around him as Gil drove them towards the nearest hospital. His immediate surroundings–the dashboard of the Impala, the empty coffee cup with stains down the side, the pair of sunglasses shoved hastily in the console–were moving with him, identifiable in great detail, bits of Gil’s life that made him so recognisable to Malcolm’s eye. 

Outside of the car, the world had started to cry, first only a few tears slipping by before the deluge which had ensued. All around, people hastily resurrected umbrellas or ducked beneath awnings as cars continued to speed by, and Malcolm’s eyes hazily traced the water droplets on the window as they traced their path down to the sill. The world was turning, moving,  spinning around Malcolm, and as he laid his head on the window, all he wanted to do was _sleep_.


End file.
